KE: Beyond Lecture Theaters and Dissection Hall

After an hour of mind numbing Physiology lecture (and it did not take too much to numb my mind in those days), I enter the cafeteria. A game of chess is in full swing. A crowd of spectators has already gathered on either side of these players. Having a rudimentary knowledge of the game myself, I decide to watch for a few minutes. The younger and leaner of two has found an outpost for his bishop, deep in the enemy territory. ‘Pheel bund’ he says to no one in particular as a faint smile appears on his face. I am not familiar with the term. I look at the chess board again. His bishop has the support of his pawn and is protected from a frontal assault by the enemy pawn. The enemy pawn that could attack the bishop diagonally is missing. The bishop is now attacking the enemy castle while it remains secure itself.

Brilliant. 
The other chess player is shorter, and has a calm look on his face. Apparently he has seen this before. He calmly advances his pawn; I see no obstacle in its path to become a queen. I can tell that these two chess players are way beyond my league.

I settle on an adjoining table, I have decided that I am not going to the dissection hall.  Instead, I plan to have a nice breakfast. I call Lal Baba, a polite, short and stubby man with a big scarf on his shoulder and a red beard—hence the name. In his late forties, he has been here since he was eighteen. ‘Please bring me two Samosas and a kebab. I do not mention tea but that his understood between the two of us. ‘Abhi laya sahib’, he says enthusiastically and then shouts my order to the cook in the back right from there. There is no time to be wasted as people are all pouring in from all directions.

I look over my shoulder, the game of chess is in full swing and the two chess masters are completely engrossed in the game, totally oblivious to their surroundings. I see that the crowd behind the shorter player is larger and comprise of clinical year students. (I am sorry, I never learnt the name of either players, I hope my readers may provide this information when this blog is published). Every now and then the younger player takes a hard swig at his ice cold Pepsi, without taking his eyes off the board. The game seems to be reaching a climax. Judging from the reaction of the crowd, the younger one seems to be winning. Then I notice that one of the boys from the crowd of seniors picks up a full bottle of ketchup and puts a straw in it. That is very odd I think. I know this cafeteria ketchup is barely edible with the kebab, is he going to drink that? Wait, now he is on the other side, behind the younger player. Now he is reaching for his bottle of Pepsi.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he has managed to swap the bottle of Pepsi with the bottle of ketchup. So that is what he was up to!

Meanwhile, the senior player has lost some of his calm demeanor. I can see a bead of sweat forming on his temple. The leaner one is sensing victory. He decided to take one final guzzle at his Pepsi!

Everyone present in the cafeteria hears the yelp that comes out of hapless chess master. Taking advantage of this commotion someone has toppled the chess board.

I guess we will never know how this game would have ended.

I have finished my breakfast and after paying Lal Baba, I decide not to wait for my friends who are still in the Dissection Hall and take a stroll into Dhani Ram Road, Anarkali by myself.

By the way, I avoided Dissection Hall because I got sick after four months of daily dissection. I had a low grade fever which last more than a month and I had developed  shortness of breath. (I didn’t know it then but I had developed formalin induced pneumonitis after exposure to formalin-- liberally used to preserve the dead bodies in our Dissection Hall).

As I approached the tall iron gates that separated KE from the hubbub of Anarkali, I pulled out my Littman stethoscope, a gift from my physician uncle in United States and put it around my neck, as I had seen the seniors do. Why do you need a stethoscope? Some of my vigilant readers might ask. Did I need it to examine someone?
No, I did need it to auscultate anyone. And no, I had not learnt how to use it beyond telling you that your heart made a Lub-Dub sound and that you are alive. So what did I need it for? If you do not know I am not going to tell you. Because you are way beyond the average fickle medical student that most of us were at that stage. Others used a lab coat for similar purpose, but mine was too dirty from my primary use of the lab coat. I used it for cleaning all those lecture theater desks and seats therefore it wasn’t useful for impressing anyone!

So, with a brand new American stethoscope dangling around my neck, I was now walking on Dhani Ram Road. Yet everyone else was busy dodging the traffic and avoiding crashes with a mob of fellow pedestrians. It had recently rained so I had to also watch out for speeding rickshaws and cars as they drove right through the puddles of water on the road, sending the dirty rain water every which way. I walked right past the mango milk shake places, where enthusiastic flaggers tried to convince me that their milkshake was the best. I also stopped at one but on my way back. Besides, I just had breakfast and I was headed straight to Bano Bazaar, for a plate of ‘chaat’. The place had the ‘best chaat’, was a line you frequently heard from all the enthusiastic Bano Bazaar frequenters.

Some of my alert readers will question me. Chaat? They would ask. Did you not say, you just had breakfast?

For those who don’t know Bano Bazaar and can’t figure it out from the name itself, there is a hint. It is a popular place for shopping for all the girls from nearby Punjab University, Government College and Lahore College of Fine Arts, all within walking distance. Besides, the chaat is nice too!

So I sit down and order my chaat. The stethoscope is dangling in my neck. I look around. The place is crowded with shoppers, predominantly girls. Some younger ones are there with their mothers. Everyone is busy around me shopping, talking, laughing, shouting, secretly whispering, elbowing companions and pointing discreetly.  Yet, not a single pair of eyes locks into mine.

The chaat is still not done, but I am.

As I pay my bill, I write a mental note to self.

Nauman, you are invisible here too.

Need Your Help! Pictures, Co-authors.

Thank you so much everyone who has contributed to this blog so far. 


In particular, I would like to thank Shahid Bashir, Wajahat Hassan, Abdul Qayyum, Naveed Yazdani, Zahid Chohan, Qasim Ghani, Mubeen Malik,  and Naghmi Shirin sharing their wonderful stories. Today I invite each and every one of them to help me continue the blog by becoming co-authors. Blogger allows for up to ten co-authors and there is no reason what so ever that we could not share some assignments.
For Example, Naveed can pick the story about the Mangla Trip. Mubeen Malik could tell us more stories about hostel life in KE. Shahid could dwell a bit more the Anatomy dissection hall and Wajahat could talk about the 'Badoos Fraternity', Naghmi can bring us the very important perspective of the girls, etc.

I know for a fact that there others who could also make a contribution. Wajih or Imran Rashid could bring the perspective of the 'Abdallian group'. Saeed uz Zaman can talk about-- anything really but specifically, about the amazing trio from FC College, the other members beside him are Saeed Uddin and Saroosh.

Another request: Please send your class photos. I wonder if Sajid Hameed, Naveed, Qayyum or Wajaahat or some one else volunteers for that important project.

So please help me out.

Please let me know if you like the idea. 

Then we will work on how to make it happen.

Class Magazines

Listen The pioneer magazine published by Sarosh Hamid Khan, an outgoing and energetic member of our class. I still remember the cover. It had a big ear on it. It had one article that I remember. It was written by a close friend of mine—Nasir  Javed. He described the scene of the Physiology lecture theater, which Naghmi Shirin recently recalled in her comments. It was a funny article, and I still remember the first line…it was Ghora! Ghora!

I too wrote an article but it missed the deadline of publication. Listen was followed by a magazine whose name I cannot recall and that is embarrassing, because that is where my article finally got published. I learnt about the magazine from my friends Javed Ajmal and Kamran Hameed. When the magazine came out, I was surprised by one thing. At the end of every name the word ‘Sheikh’ appeared. Nauman Sheikh was the editor of course. But Javed Ajmal became Javed Ajmal Sheikh and Kamran Hameed became Kamran Hameed Sheikh. In fact I was the only ‘non-Sheikh’ in the whole magazine. Some thought I was a ‘Sheikh-in-hiding’. Needless to say the magazine was dubbed ‘Sheikhon-ki-Sheikhian’ – a fact I learnt from my ‘secret informer’—Rameez. By the way, the article I wrote was about the scene in Anatomy Dissection Hall. It was titled ‘Two hours with the Dead’. However there were only two people that I know of that actually read that article. And one of them was me!

Vision: I had forgotten the name of this magazine, until a few days ago my friend Wajih Zaheer mentioned it a few days ago. Wajih knows a lot more about this than I do and I hope he or the authors of the magazine come forward and describe it for us. If I am not mistaken, this magazine came out after our famous Mangla Trip that Naveed Yazadani remembered in his recent comments. I remember that it had a questionnaire about the trip and goals in life. This was the only magazine where the girls participated with comments. Perhaps it was the charisma of the authors… Anyway, some comments I remember to this day.  In response to the Mangla trip someone recalled the ‘Thanday nan aur garam botallain’ another recalled ‘the fish that one of the demonstrators caught’ but no one could top the comment made by a girl who wrote in response to goal of life…’Ayaashi!’

Unpublished poetry. So far I have mentioned anonymous poem ‘Battain Humary Ghor se sun Lo’. But at least it got published. Now I would direct you to anonymous poems that were not published. The first one went like this.

Ik patta gira, aawaz huey na shoor huwa

Dil mera bhi kuch aisey hi…. (patta nahin keiya huwa)

The other one is actually in English. It goes ‘One you are the only ONE’

I promise you the authors shall not be revealed unless they themselves choose to do so!

Request Please if anyone has saved a copy of any of the magazines; please share them with the rest of us.